


Teotleco

by Pseudothyrum



Series: The Discoverie of Witchcraft [1]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, The Question (Comics)
Genre: Aztecs, Blood Magic, Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, Hub City is a terrible city, Human Sacrifice, Magic, References to Aztec Religion & Lore, You don't need to know Question to read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5288855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Constantine is sought out by a faceless man with a bit of an Aztec problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teotleco

He swims up to consciousness slowly, painfully, like he’s been actually drowned in all the alcohol he drank last night. He’s halfway to blearily rolling out of bed in search of his cigarettes when he registers somewhere in the very back of his mind that there is someone in his room, staring at him from the end of the bed. Unfortunately for him, halfway turns out to be halfway too far, and he tumbles unceremoniously to the ground, limbs hopelessly tangled in the sheets that he has dragged along with him. The man at the end of his bed stares back at him implacably with no expression on his face. Or, indeed, any facial features at all. 

“You have no face,” he says, eloquently. 

“Those new acne medications are no joke,” the man says drily, somehow perfectly audible- and a damn sight more clear than Constantine- despite lacking any sort of mouth. His hair is short and dark, and he’s dressed like he just stepped out of a black and white movie, an appearance weirdly heightened by the clashing colours of his orange shirt and blue suit. He moves to drop his hat onto the dresser, but recoils in apparent distaste at the detritus and magical effluvia that covers every surface in his bedroom. 

“On second thought,” the man says, and Constantine can hear the smile in his voice even without a face,  
“perhaps I’ll just hold onto this.”

“Perhaps you’ll bloody well tell me who you are, mate, and just what you think you’re doing in my bedroom at such an ungodly hour.” The man turns his face pointedly in the direction of Constantine’s clock, which traitorously declares it to be 2:13 in the afternoon. 

“Right, well, the rest of it stands, anyways,” he mumbles, shoving a cigarette in his mouth and dragging himself up by the nightstand, a hand clutching the sheets around his waist as he is suddenly unsure as to whether he fell asleep clothed or not. 

“Those’ll kill you, you know,” says the faceless man. 

“They’re certainly welcome to try,” says Constantine, defiantly lighting the cigarette with a snap of his fingers. The faceless man shrugs, still radiating amusement, which Constantine is finding very infuriating, thank you very much. 

“You going to start making with the answers, mate?” 

“That,” the man says, like a great bloody prat, “is the question.”

“Yes,” says John, “excellent observation. And yet, not an answer.” 

“My name is the Question,” says the faceless man.

“Yes, it bloody well is the question, so... what is the answer?” 

“The answer is the Question,” the man says. John sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands and breathes for a long moment. 

“I am too hung over for this, mate,” he says, “so I’m going to ask you nicely one more time. Who are ya?”

“That... is the question.”

He rather regrets throwing the lamp, now that he’s had a moment to consider. Not least because the man dodged it almost effortlessly. It was a good lamp. 

“If I tell you that I go by the name ‘Question’” the man says cautiously, “are you going to throw something at me again?”

“Might do,” Constantine says, pressing the ember of his dying cigarette against a new one, “but first I need coffee. You can come if you like, though I do warn you that the kitchen is full of smashy things, and you can’t dodge ‘em all, mate.” He hitches up the sheets, still uncertain as to the existence of pants and unwilling to risk it. He kicks some of the clothes and books that lie scattered on the floor over the lamp as they leave. RIP lamp.

* * *

Constantine watches from the single habitable chair as the faceless man diligently tries to find a surface to perch himself on that isn’t covered in melted wax, miscellaneous papers, or suspicious stains that even Constantine can’t completely recall the origin of. 

“That’s an interesting aesthetic you have there,” Constantine says over the lip of his mug, “very Slender Man.” The Question snorts and finally settles himself awkwardly on the very edge of the couch’s arm. 

“Please. My suit is much nicer,” he says, adjusting his jacket, “and I don’t tend to lurk in forests.” 

“But you got the creepin’ around peoples’ homes thing down pat.” The Question nods thoughtfully.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You do that. So are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“Ah, now that-”

“If you say “that is the question” one more time, so help me...” he reaches blindly behind himself and grabs the first thing he can get a hold of, shaking the egg timer at the Question threateningly. The Question holds up his hands in a gesture of submission. 

“Old habits,” he says, “I’ll try to refrain.” Constantine warily sets the egg timer down, pointedly keeping it within easy reach. 

“Let’s hear it, then. I suppose you’ve come to beg my expert assistance in some arcane matter,” Constantine sits back and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

“I’m here because this is where all the clues have lead me. Have you ever felt the invisible hand of some dark intelligence guiding you towards some unknown goal? As though your life is not entirely your own? As if you were a puppet dancing on strings controlled by a hand coming out of the shadows?”

“Constantly”

“What would you say if I told you... that you were right?” This was probably intended to be serious, portentous, a real wow moment. Constantine wonders if he practiced it while waiting for him to wake up.

“No shit, Sherlock.” The Question seems taken aback

“So you know about the Illuminati, then?”

“... No, it’s demons, mate. Nosy buggers. Can’t mind their own business to save their lives.”

“Demons,” the faceless man repeats, and Constantine can practically hear the nonplussed expression. Credit where it’s due, he recovers remarkably well, fishing in his overcoat for a notepad that he begins scribbling furiously in, muttering to himself all the while. 

“That would explain so much,” the Question says after pocketing the book again, “about Joey Fatone.” He says it with such certainty that Constantine almost wants to pretend that it makes sense. 

“Please tell me that you did not break into my house at this unseemly hour,” he ignores the Question’s pointed cough of derision, “to ask me questions about boy bands. God, why do I know that?” The Question scoffs. 

“Of course not. This goes far beyond them. They are just cogs in a much bigger, much darker machine,” 

“Right. Well, it was a displeasure to meet you, please never come back,” he stands to leave, remembering at the last moment to snatch his sheet.

“Wait!” says the Question, “I did come to you for a reason. I need your help.” 

“And you aren’t going to leave until I hear you out?” The Question shakes his head. Constantine sighs heavily and drops back into the chair, gesturing at Question to continue. 

“I was investigating a ring of drug smugglers in Hub City. Everything seemed completely normal until I found this at one of their warehouses.” He passes Constantine several pictures depicting the aftermath of a blood ritual. Five bodies lay in a circle, heads pointing towards the centre where a circular rune was drawn in blood. Each had its chest split open, ribs bent up and outwards.

“Are their-?”

“Hearts missing, yes,” The Question breaks in, running a hand through his hair. “As you might imagine this is all a bit outside my area of expertise, so I came looking for the best,” Constantine allows himself a self-satisfied grin, “unfortunately, she was much too busy, so she sent me to someone she said she trusted.” Constantine downgrades to a smirk. Second best wasn’t too- “He was otherwise engaged. But apparently you can be trusted not to screw things up too badly,” Constantine scowls, and the Question holds his hands up again, “His words.”

“I’m sure,” he says, glancing back at the photos, “Looks like you got a nasty case of Aztec drug lords. You’ll want to get that looked at right away. For every Aztec drug lord you see there’re a hundred you don’t.” He stands and makes a vague shooing gesture, “Go on, piss off, you got what you came for.” The Question continues to sit, expectant. Constantine stares him down for a solid minute, during which he begins to seriously doubt the wisdom of having a staring contest with a man who has no visible eyes. 

“Fiiiiine. Wait there, let me at least get some trousers on. Then we’ll go see about your Aztecs.” 

* * *

Hub City would give Gotham a run for its money in sheer grim darkness, Constantine thinks, as Question fends off maybe the third mugging attempt since they arrived ten minutes ago.

“Real charming place you got here, mate,” he says, lighting his cigarette while Question easily disarms the mugger, “so glad you woke me up early for this.” Question grunts noncommittally as he knocks the guy out and pockets his knife. 

“It’s this way,” he says, leading Constantine down an alleyway to a side door. Predictably the bodies have been removed, but the blood rune that was in the centre of the gathering has been etched deeply into the concrete floor. Constantine squats close to it, running his hand through the air. 

“This is old magic,” he says, “a covenant with old gods to ensure success and long life.” He pats his pockets, then holds out his hand towards Question, “give me your phone.” 

“Why?”

“Need something reflective to scry with, left all me compact mirrors at home,” Question reluctantly hands it over. “Is this a Blue Beetle phone case? How old are you, twelve?” 

“Shut up,” says Question, “I saw your Batman underwear.” Constantine coughs awkwardly and places the phone in the centre of the rune, muttering a quick incantation. The screen resolves with an image of the same warehouse, but filled with several armed men and five squirming, bound victims. 

“Recognise anyone?” he asks as Question leans close. They watch as one of the men steps forward and lifts a flint knife high. Question points at one of the men in the background. 

“Him, I know him. Manny Hernandez.”

“Huh. Like a bad penny,” Constantine mutters under his breath as he terminates the spell. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, an old friend. Do you know where this Manny Hernandez hangs his hat?” The Question shrugs. 

“Last I heard from him and his gang they’d taken over a bunch of row houses over by Emerson Park.” Question begins walking, leading them out of the building and down the street, where somebody has helpfully set a mailbox and several trees on fire. Question doesn’t even acknowledge the chaos, so Constantine just follows, leaning over to light his cigarette on a burning bench as he passes. 

* * * 

The row houses are still standing- just barely- which Constantine takes as a great achievement given the state of the rest of Hub City. Question doesn’t even bother to knock, turning the handle and beckoning Constantine inside. The house smells faintly of damp and copper, and looks almost exactly like someone called down to the sets department and asked for a generic drug den. Question points towards the back of the house, where flickering light is spilling out from under a doorway. Constantine nods and they walk cautiously forwards, the floor squeaking quietly underfoot. Question gags when he opens the door, and stepping up behind him Constantine can understand why. The smell of blood is palpable in the air. The light of maybe a hundred candles cast an eerie glow on dozens of corpses hanging from the ceiling. Alligators, several birds, a variety of snakes, all dripping blood down onto a floor covered in runes. 

“You know, there’s a saying in the magical community,” Constantine says, backing out slowly, “if you go to a place and there are dead, bloody animals hanging from the ceiling... leave that place”

“Yeah, that seems like a good saying,” Constantine turns back to the front door, where a man wearing what looks distressingly like a flayed human face over his own face is standing holding a long flint knife and a club with obsidian blades embedded in it

“Please tell me the only way out isn’t through the spooky blood room,” Constantine says. Question doesn’t even bother to answer, grabbing Constantine by the shoulder and dragging him back into the bloody room, slamming the door behind them and jamming a chair under the handle. Through the door they can hear chanting, and the sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway and from above. Constantine looks around the room. There are two windows, nailed shut, and a door that looks to lead into the basement. Question ducks to avoid a dangling snake and looks out the window. 

“Seems empty out there, maybe we should risk it,” he says, just as the flint knife plunges through the door. 

“You don’t say,” says Constantine, smashing out a window with his elbow. They fling themselves to the ground gracelessly, and Constantine gratefully sucks down some air that isn’t heavy with blood. 

“Well that was weird,” says Question. 

“Probably going to keep being weird unless we get out of here,” says Constantine, pushing himself up off the grass. The man with the flayed skin face is staring implacably back at them from the window. 

“Constantine,” says the Question worriedly, and Constantine pulls his eyes away from the flayed man just in time to be hit in the back of the head, and for everything to go dark. 

* * *

He wakes up to the smell of damp and copper, a constant, unceasing dripping sound, and throbbing pain in the back of his head. He groans and drags himself off the floor, a task made considerably more difficult by the zip ties keeping his hands behind his back. Question sits across from him, completely still. His hands are also bound behind him, wrapped backwards around a metal beam. A trickle of blood dribbles sluggishly from his chin, incongruous against his apparently unmarked face. Constantine kicks his foot.

“Oi. You alive?” 

“Yes,” says the Question, “I’ve been awake longer than you have. You really must have needed that sleep, I’ll never forgive myself for waking you up so early,”

“Why’re you tied to a pole and I’m not?” he asks, instead of acknowledging the jibe. 

“I put up a bit more of a fight than you,” says Question, “I guess they thought you wouldn’t be much trouble.” Constantine snorts and mutters a quick spell under his breath, feeling the zip tie heat up suddenly and snap. 

“I’m almost insulted,” he says, rubbing his wrists, “maybe we should go take it up with our hosts.” He snaps the ties around Question’s wrist, and inspects the room they’re in. The basement, he guesses. There are some boxes underneath the stairs, a buzzing freezer in the corner, and several animal cages, all empty. 

“There’s got to be at least a dozen of them up there,” says Question, standing slowly, “maybe more. They’re all armed and, as we’ve seen, super willing to cut out peoples’ hearts. I’m not sure we stand much of a chance against them.”

“Well not with an attitude like that we don’t!” Constantine says cheerily. “Help me search, we’re going to need some corn, and some blood.” 

“And I always thought they were kidding when they said British cuisine was terrible.”

“There’s no need to be like that,” says Constantine, wounded. “No, we’re calling up Camaxtli. Those people upstairs are being lead by a devotee in the cult of Huitzilopochtli, the god of the Mexica, so we’re going to ask for help from good old Camaxtli, patron god of their mortal enemies, the Tlaxcaltecs.”

“I literally have no idea what any of that meant,” Question says, opening up the freezer and beginning to shuffle through the contents.

“The state of the American educational system,” Constantine says mournfully, dodging a container of mint chocolate chip ice cream as it sails past his head. 

“Aha!” says Question, emerging triumphantly with a freezer-burned bag of corn. He tosses it to Constantine, who opens it and begins building a makeshift altar out of animal cages.

“So this is going to... kill all of them?” 

“No, we just need enough power to get the guy with the face on his face. Did you see the maquahuitl he was holding?” 

“Was that the knife or the pointy baseball bat?”

“...The pointy baseball bat. That was a ritual maquahuitl, he’s using it to control his followers, and it’s holding Huitzilopochtli on this plane. We have to get it out of his hands. Without it, they’re just a bunch of very confused drug dealers, and he’s an angry dude with a gross face on his face.” Question nods, but his scepticism is palpable. 

“Hand me the knife,” says Constantine, rolling back his sleeves. 

“I’m not entirely convinced this is going to work,” Question says, riffling through his pockets all the same. 

“C’mon mate, have some faith. Fifty per cent of the time this works every time!”

“Oh yeah, that’s encouraging.” Question mutters under his breath. Constantine ignores him, quickly cutting his own palm and allowing the blood to drip onto the kernels of corn arranged on the altar. He begins chanting under his breath. As the incantation takes hold he feels a prickling, then a burning under his skin. For a moment, it feels as though it is being ripped from his body, and from somewhere wind howls. Suddenly, there is stillness, and the darkness coalesces above the altar. A man steps through, half yellow, half tan, his face is eyeless, his mouth gapes open. He is clothed in flayed skin, the hands fluttering at his wrists. Behind him, Constantine feels Question take a half step backwards. 

“O mighty Camaxtli,” says Constantine, “your enemy, Huitzilopochtli resides in this house. We have brought you here to seek revenge on him.” The old god breathes in, a terrible, deep sound, like the stirring of a breeze through a long-dead city. 

“I feel him here, little priest,” he says, his voice both alien and ancient, formed by a tongue unused to English, “and he has grown fat on blood and heart magic. A price must be paid, for my old bones are weary and my skin has grown brittle.”

“What does he want,” Question hisses from behind him, “you gave him blood, wasn’t that enough?” 

“That was just to convince him to come here and hear us out,” Constantine says, “but now he wants skin.”

“So, what, we skin a guy? That doesn’t seem very heroic.” 

“Well, I’m not much of a hero,” Constantine hefts the knife, “we’ll have to get one of them to come down here.”

“Wait,” says Question, “I think I might...” he presses a button on his belt and a swirl of gas engulfs him. When he emerges his hair is red, and his face peels off easily.

“Hey, aren’t you-”

“Later,” says Question, holding up the false skin, “is this good enough, o... spooky one?” he asks. The old god breathes in again, and Constantine can feel the power crackling through the air. 

“Lay it on my altar, little priest, and give me the blood of your sacrifice.” Constantine places the face gently on the altar, and grabs Question’s hand. 

“Sorry mate, this’ll sting.” He slits Question’s palm and presses it to the mask, leaving a bloody smear. There is a sudden roaring noise, and they are buffeted aside as Camaxtli steps down from the altar and moves purposefully towards the stairs. Constantine jabs an elbow in Question’s side. 

“Come on then, after the spooky god man.”

* * *  
By the time they make it up the stairs Camaxtli has found his target. The gods are locked in combat, just barely flickering on the edge of consciousness. Above them they can hear the sound of chanting and footsteps. 

“They haven’t noticed yet,” Constantine whispers, “the gods are fighting on their own plane. We need to get up there and break the maquahuitl before they sacrifice whatever poor sod they’ve got tied up to that altar. 

“What am I supposed to do?” Question whispers as the creep down the hall and up the stairs

“Just do that voodoo that you do so well,” Constantine hisses back, and then, when Question looks back at him with blank confusion on his refreshingly expressive face, “punch everyone who comes close to you in the face until they stop coming close to you. I’ll handle old Face-Face” 

“Finally,” says Question, “something about this whole business I can wrap my head around.” When they burst in the Flayed Man is mid-chant, holding the maquahuitl in both hands suspended over the body of a squirming man who has been tied to a table. Twelve people kneel before the altar, and as one they turn to face Question and Constantine. Constantine pushes Question forward. 

“Go on then, punch them.” 

“I hate you so much.” The Question is immediately swarmed by cultists, and Constantine edges around the fray, muttering a charm under his breath and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. The Flayed Man emerges from behind the altar and steps towards Constantine, raising the maquahuitl above his head. Constantine finishes the charm just as he swings, and the maquahuitl halts in mid-air. The Flayed Man releases it in surprise, and Constantine leaps for it, snatching it out of the air and rolling behind the altar. 

“Hmmm eee hnnnngh,” says the man tied to the altar. 

“Yeah, tell me about it, mate,” Constantine says, tossing a curse at the Flayed Man, who swats it away. 

“Guuuh hrrk aahnnn,” says the man tied to the altar. 

“You aren’t exactly helping,” says Constantine, catching the Flayed Man up in a crackle of electricity and throwing him across the room, “close your eyes, mate.” He grabs the maquahuitl and says a severing incantation, snapping it over his knee. The whole room suddenly goes still as it fills with a blinding light, and a percussive blast explodes outwards, knocking Constantine and everyone else still standing in the room over. From downstairs comes a horrible sound, a hundred thousand screaming voices in purest agony, it lasts for a minute, or perhaps ten, and when it is gone the whole house rings with silence. 

“Ahh cnnnt hheee,” says the man tied to the altar.

“I told you to close your eyes,” Constantine groans, using the table to pull himself up. The Flayed Man is propped against the opposite wall, unconscious. His minions are littered across the floor in varying states of consciousness, while the Question is on his hands and knees in the middle of them, groaning in pain. 

“Oi,” says Constantine, “did you get stabbed?”

“No, no thanks to you,” Question says, hauling himself unsteadily to his feet. He looks around at the carnage that surrounds him. “This is going to be really weird to explain to the police.” Constantine laughs. 

“That’s why I never stick around if I can help it,” he lights a cigarette and pulls the gag out of the altar man’s mouth, “but I’m sure this guy’ll back you up, right mate?” 

* * *

They settle for tying everybody in the house up, then calling the cops and leaving before they get there, since Question doesn’t have his mask, and Constantine is terminally irresponsible.

“Besides,” he assures Question as they leave, “there was nothing else magical in that house, with the maquahuitl gone they’re as powerless as any other ruthless drug dealers.”

“Oh yes, I find that very comforting,” says the Question, “although I’m not sure the guy on the altar will see it the same way.”

“Hey, like I kept telling him, we had to leave him tied up or else the cops wouldn’t know he was a victim. We were helping him out, really, he should be thanking us. Some people pay good money for that sort of thing.”

“What, getting sacrificed by ancient magical cults?” 

“Different strokes.” Constantine shrugs and takes a drag on his cigarette.

“I hope you won’t be offended,” says Question, “if I say I hope I never have to call on you again.” 

“Nah, mate. If anything I’d be a little weirded out if you thought that was a fun night.” Question nods thoughtfully. 

“Still, it was nice to meet you, John Constantine,” he holds out his hand to shake.

“Wish I could say the same, Victor,” Constantine smirks as Question scowls and drops his hand.

“You’d better not tell anybody about this,” he says, and Constantine rolls his eyes.

“Please. Who would I tell?” Question gives him an appraising look. 

“Now that... is the question,” Question ducks out of the way at the last second as Constantine whips the egg timer, produced from the hidden pocket where he placed it for just such an occasion, at his face.

“Yeah, alright, I deserved that,” Question laughs, and looks away for a long moment, gazing down the street, where the buildings perfectly frame a rising sun. “Shouldn’t you be getting to sleep Constantine?” he asks with a smirk, “You’ve been up for what, twelve whole hours?”

“Yeah, yeah you’re a laugh riot,” Constantine mutters, flicking his cigarette into one of the many rubbish fires dotting Hub City’s scenic streets, “I put my number in your stupid Blue Beetle phone. Next time, just call. Breaking in is just so... Gotham.” With that he opens a portal and steps through into the bright light of morning.


End file.
